“Mind my smoking?” said Roddy. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. A few bricks, dislodged probably by his last descent, came clattering down the chimney, and as it was perfectly dark, gave him the notion that some one was endeavouring to force an entrance into the room. ‘Come inside at once, child. Your time isn't come yet.
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